


Not A Damn Thing

by finishusatoneblow



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: M/M, No Jehan and Feuilly just because I didn't put them in… sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 20:45:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finishusatoneblow/pseuds/finishusatoneblow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day would soon come when Enjolras and all of Les Amis would put aside their earthly desires, put their lives in the hands of God, and risk themselves for the greater good of the people. Today was not that day.<br/>"Imagine an AU where Enjolras and Grantaire are both drunk…" Based on a script from longassbananas on tumblr</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not A Damn Thing

The winter was breaking. The icy cold was melting away, giving way to warmth pushing from the earth with a sense of urgency. The time for change was at hand. The plans were coming together, and the populace was become more fevered with each passing day. The day would soon come when Enjolras and all of Les Amis would put aside their earthly desires, put their lives in the hands of God, and risk themselves for the greater good of the people.

Today was not that day.

“Annnnnnd GO!” Courfeyrac shouted. Grantaire didn’t even wince as he downed his glass, the sting of alcohol in his throat already numbed by drunkenness. Surprisingly, it was Enjolras who slammed his glass down on the table first, and when Grantaire emerged from behind his own, he could see a smug look on Enjolras’ face as he looked around at the impressed and surprised faces of the other Amis at the table. Enjolras never drank. But tonight was special. They all somehow knew this would be one of the last times they would be together and happy, able to spare a thought for something other than the struggle to come.

Courfeyrac clapped Enjolras on the back, while Bahorel scowled and Combeferre gave an appreciative nod. Grantaire raised one eyebrow, catching Enjolras’ gaze from across the table. It was hazy, soft, so unlike the usual intensity that pierced him, be it ice or fire. Enjolras looked relaxed, congenial, warm. But this startled Grantaire as much as ever.

“Joly, pour me a shot would you?” Grantaire grumbled, not taking his eyes off Enjolras even as Enjolras turned to give Bahorel a conciliatory pat on the arm.

“Gladly, my good Monsieur R!” Joly poured more whiskey on the table than in the glass but smiled all the same, clinking his glass against Grantaire’s before tossing back his own shot with gusto.

Grantaire was able to crack a smile in Joly’s direction before he instinctively turned back to Enjolras, who was listening to Combeferre chatter amicably about some moth species or other, a lazy smile playing on his lips. Grantaire couldn’t stop staring. He was vaguely aware of his other friends growing steadily drunker and sleepier around him, but his focus was on Enjolras. His blonde hair cascaded over his shoulders and back, the muscles, for once, not tight and rigid, but loose and languid. His smile never fell below half a smirk, save for when he drank deeply from his glass. And those eyes, blue as ever, softened, younger-looking, misty with innocence and idealism, flickering with affection for his friends, even when he caught Grantaire staring at him across the room.

By the end of the night, it became apparent that for all his aptitude downing liquor, Enjolras could not hold his drink (after all, he was unaccustomed to it). Grantaire snapped out of his reverie as Enjolras stumbled to his feet, half-dragging a slurring Courfeyrac at his side.

“You going home, man, you are extraordin-*hic*-arily drruuunk,”  Enjolras deposited Courfeyrac into Combeferre’s capable yet slightly inebriated hands. “Off you go!” he smiled fondly after the pair, giving Combeferre a gentle nudge down the stairs. Enjolras turned around, surveying the room amusedly. His glanced at Joly and Bossuet, asleep at the corner table, arms around each other, before resting his eyes on Grantaire.

Only at this moment did Grantaire realize that the café was empty save for himself, Enjolras, and the sleeping couple. Grantaire tried to stand, but swayed dangerously, clutching at the table for support, the many empty glasses on the table rattling.

Enjolras blinked at him, then said, “No, sit. Let’s have a drink.”

Enjolras had had more than enough drinks, but Grantaire liked this easy-going Enjolras. And who was he to refuse another drink? He was drunk, certainly, but he’d seen worse days. Particularly when Enjolras was the exact opposite of the warm friend he acted now, instead harsh, cold, and calculating, barely sparing a glance for Grantaire, let alone drinking with him.

Enjolras snatched up a bottle of brandy from a nearby table before flopping into the seat next to Grantaire. He filled two used glasses halfway full of light brown poor judgment, and handed one to Grantaire. They didn’t toast. Grantaire downed his glass at one go, squeezing his eyes shut.

When he opened them, Enjolras’ eyes staring back at him, seeming to invite him in. This time they smoldered. This time there was no question as to ice or fire. The candlelight danced on Enjolras’ face, casting shadows across his chiseled features, glowing golden in his blonde hair. He looked like an angel. But above all, it was his eyes, burning into Grantaire’s with that intense inner light, that convinced Grantaire that what he had been wanting to do for so long was okay.

Grantaire’s hand shot forward almost automatically, before he even knew what he was doing, but it rested with incredible gentleness on Enjolras’ soft, drink-flushed cheek. His fingers stroked the smooth skin, his palm cupping Enjolras’ jaw, holding his head in place, ensuring that he wouldn’t turn away.

Enjolras’ his brow deeply furrowed, lips parting slightly in shock. Grantaire pressed his hand against Enjolras’ face, savoring the touch, terrified he would lose it. Though Enjolras’ mouth hardened into a thin line, his eyes remained unchanged, intense, dazzling. Enjolras opened his mouth to speak

“Your eyes….” Grantaire interrupted, desperate to hold onto the moment as long as he could.

Enjolras’ expression softened. His mouth relaxed. Grantaire could feel Enjolras' breath against his hand. His heart raced.

Enjolras only answered in pure befuddlement: “What? Is there something wrong with my eyes?”

Grantaire struggled to swallow a large lump in his throat. _He_ had been wrong. He chuckled softly, a well-practiced routine. “No, nothing.”

He held his hand to Enjolras’ face a moment longer, trying to memorize his gaze, desperately seeking warmth, and finding it with such intensity it nearly left him reeling again. “Not a damn thing,” he murmured, barely above a whisper.

Grantaire let his hand fall as he turned away. He cast his eyes down to the empty bottle in front of them, fingering it self-consciously. He barely noticed when Enjolras descended the stairs wordlessly.

The warmth was long-gone. 

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this fantastic ask/premise/script from tumblr-user longassbananas- the idea was completely hers I owe her ALL the inspiration:  
> http://redevenait-quelquun.tumblr.com/post/53558395699/ok-but-imagine-an-au-where-enjolras-and-grantaire-are


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